thus shall we float into the kingdom of heaven
by PenroseSun
Summary: Because if the consecrated ground of a Church burns Crowley, then so does Heaven.


When they drag him up to Heaven, Crowley thinks, perversely, of a book by Hans Christian Anderson.

He remembers reading it on a lazy afternoon in the bookshop, scoffing at the premise _(who'd want a soul? who'd kill themselves for a _soul _of all things?)_. The lines flash through his mind like memories – false remembrances of a life that wasn't his.

'_I know what you want,' _the sea witch had said._ 'It is very stupid of you, but you shall have your way, and it will bring you to sorrow.'_

And it had, hadn't it? Nothing but sorrow – longing (a searing, fiery pain), without reprieve, without _hope_.

_He's lying – of course he's lying. He's _always _had hope._

Crowley lets the thoughts slip through his mind like sand; distraction, welcome distraction. He thinks of waiting, and he thinks of a rainstorm in a garden, and he thinks of a prison cell, and a Church, and a drive home that never happened. Oysters in Rome. Lunch at the Ritz.

_But at every step you take it will feel as if you were treading upon sharp knives–_

It wasn't about the soul thing, not really, Aziraphale had told him all those years ago. It was about love. She learned to love something more than she loved herself, and that was why she didn't become foam in the morning– And Crowley had thought that it wasn't fair that she should have needed to become foam _at all_, and if dying for the one she loved was enough, then why wait on the prayers of scared children? If she was saved at all, then why not just_ save_ her.

Some say sharp knives, but Crowley thinks the pain is more like searing fire.

_Consecrated ground… it's like being at the beach in bare feet–_

And if a Church could burn him, Heaven only knew what the floor here could do. Not kill him, surely – not nearly enough for that. No, it was only pain. Pain, Crowley can handle. He laughs at pain; he eats pain for breakfast–

_Calm – stay calm – don't let them see you wince – they'll know if they see you shy away._

Crowley imagines dancing on hot coals – _wills_ the pain back down to the level of searing coals _only_, and resolutely does not scream, does not flinch.

Hans Christian Anderson had written the story for a man. About a man. Unlucky in love, and Crowley sometimes wonders if he, too, waited on his Prince's wedding night, and dreamed of his own death. And he wonders why no act of love was enough in life, and why it was only _dying_ that seemed to bring salvation.

Crowley thinks that Hans Christian Anderson could have done better than Edvard Collin, anyways.

He swallows the pain as he stands. In his mind's eye he sees Aziraphale – beautiful, wonderful Aziraphale, and even now gone to Hell, and facing–

_Holy water, oh please let it be holy water,_ Crowley (prays) thinks. Not hot pokers, or violent winds – Don't cut his wings. Don't _burn _him.

Crowley remembers reading the book on a lazy afternoon – it was a first edition, and Aziraphale let him touch it, let him flip through the pages and read without any special precautions, and Crowley relishes in the thought that that moment was _his_. His and no one else's – not the humans on Earth, or fools in Heaven, or bastards in Hell, but his and his alone. And if Aziraphale is _his_, then surely Aziraphale is safe – because he would sooner be foam on the sea than see his angel come to harm.

Crowley stands in place, in searing agony, and he keeps his face impassive – swallows a scream.

"I don't suppose I can persuade you to reconsider?" he says in Aziraphale's voice. _Calm, calm – keep your tone neutral – one hint of pain and they'll know for sure._ His words come out clearer than he expects them to, barely a tremor. "We're meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake." The sound is strangely comforting, even when he knows that the voice is really his own.

Crowley imagines Aziraphale spread open like the pages of that damn book; dreams of touching his soul.

One step after another, and a thousand burning daggers with each, but he does not break, does not stumble – _This is nothing_, he realizes, and is shocked that he means it. _It is nothing at all, for love._

"Well… lovely knowing you all," and the words come so easily when he has Aziraphale's voice to speak them. "May we meet on a better occasion."

_Do you not see the first red streaks in the sky? Hasten, and come back–!_

Crowley steps into the flames, sighs in relief. The fire invades his lungs, and warms him from the inside out, and when he breathes he sees the bright sun, and all around him, transparent and terrible beings.

_Of whom shall I be afraid?_ he thinks, and a hysterical laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep, deep inside of him. _Though the Host is encamped against me, my heart shall not fear._

And as the Daughters of the Air look on in horror, Crowley burns. And_ smiles_.


End file.
